


so you're on the floor, at 54

by am_fae



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1950s, Angst, Character Study, Cold War, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Paranoia, Politics, Two Shot, there are no friends at the top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6119852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_fae/pseuds/am_fae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The reason we struggle with insecurity is because we compare our behind-the-scenes with everyone else’s highlight reel.” </p><p>October 1956. Russia and America prepare for a world meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so you're on the floor, at 54

The Soviet Union gets up at 0300 to leave for the conference in Berlin.

At least, that’s what Russia’s written in the note he leaves for the rest of them. Lithuania will probably find it first and give his instructions to the others. Or maybe Ukraine.

The truth is that he didn’t have to get up at 0300, since he didn’t sleep at all. Hungary and the GDR are taking some time to settle in (as he tells Kazakhstan) to their new family (as he tells Estonia). Of course Prussia, the new German Democratic Republic, is still recovering from the war (The Great Patriotic War, he reminds Poland. Poland spits in his face.) But Hungary could be a problem. Her secret police tell his NKVD that it might be a red-alert situation. Within an hour, all reports on Erszebet Hedervary from the past six months are on his desk, along with military stations in the area.

And there they lay on his desk. Folded maps. Closed folders. It took him a moment. Oh, he _knew_ he could open them, knew that his new boss actually wanted his opinions, but…

Russia glanced at the crease in the wallpaper where he was certain the NKVD bugs were hidden. The first time he’d gotten actual (thinking) work from Khrushchev in ’53, he hadn’t been able to open the files at all. He’d stared at them for half an hour like an idiot, mind filled with _I can’t I can’t I can’t_ –

The NKVD had called, made some vaguely threatening aspersions about loyalty, and reminded him about Khrushchev’s new policy with respect to his “government jurisdiction”. So Russia smiled and thanked them and opened the files.

(The NKVD run through him like nerves or veins, but they’re Russian and they mean well some of the time.)

He studies the wallpaper. Definitely there. Probably tapping the phone, too. Hopefully not all the rooms in the house, but what do you expect.

In the end, it takes him most of the night to read through the surveillance reports. That is, until 2445. Then another few hours for him to compile his scrawled notes into something worth reading. When he looks up, it’s time to get ready for the conference. Russia curses and pushes back his chair, stifling a yawn. Fuck, he doesn’t need to deal with America now. These world conferences are all a farce, anyway. Nothing concrete ever gets done. Everyone just hides behind their pretty words and brave faces and empty gestures. America’s the worst out of all of them. Flashing that confident grin, wearing that fucking bomber jacket like a second skin. Lines straight outta Hollywood.

(And who fucking cares if you can afford to fly tons of candy over for children in West Berlin? Propaganda, that’s all it is. (Ukraine’s hands fluttered nervously at her sides and he couldn’t tell if Prussia was laughing or sobbing.))

And because he has to match everything America does, he has to attend every single world meeting. He has to get there before America and he has to look healthier than America and his lies have to be more convincing than America’s.

Russia stumbles into the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror. He curses again and pulls some concealer from the cabinet. After centuries of bruises where they weren’t supposed to be, he’s gotten used to it. This time it’s the bags under his eyes. And, oh God, is that bruising around his throat still visible? It’s been there for months!

When the concealer’s done, he examines his reflection more closely and decides on something lighter for his eyelids. The final product is far from satisfying, but he still has to iron his shirt and slacks to catch the train leaving for Berlin. Finally dressed, he stuffs a folder of notes and a few pens into his overnight bag, making sure to lock the surveillance reports on Hungary into one of the drawers in his desk. Of course, he can’t take his actual work to the meeting. (America makes a point of asking after the satellite states. _Fine,_ Russia says every time without fail. _Nothing is wrong._ America always shrugs infuriatingly, like he hadn’t meant to insinuate anything, and Russia always feels like he’s done it, lost yet another inch of ground, given everything away by acting too defensive or…)

Russia shakes his head to clear his thoughts. He turns the key in the lock and straightens. In the kitchen, he puts tea water on to boil and wraps up some bread for breakfast. He has to balance the thermos of tea and the shoulder bag on one arm while he opens the door to the hall, then tugs on a pair of boots and unhooks his Red Army coat. This is what the world should see – the USSR, military-issue, through hell and back, confident and secure, the only truth in a room full of frauds.

The kind of person who can look America in the eye and say: “You won’t press that button.”

(It’s also useful for when grain runs short and he’s, noticeably, too thin. He has to fend off enough questions as it is.)

Russia slings the duffel over one shoulder and strides out of the room. The October chill rushes in behind him.

 

The United States of America is woken by the shrill ringing of his alarm clock at 6:30 AM. Once he manages to turn off the alarm, fumbling at the buttons, he falls back into his mattress, exhausted. His eyes start to close again, heavily, until he notices the colour of the ceiling.

Blue.

America’s eyes snap open. He sits bolt upright, scrambling to get up – to reach for his glasses, a gun, something –

Heart beating a mile a minute, he stares at the room, and then collapses back into the blankets, trying to calm his breathing.

God, he’s such an idiot. Berlin, he’s in Berlin for the conference. He’d booked the hotel room just last week. America feels like crying.

Too goddamn paranoid. That’s what you are. A teenager, like England and France say. Just some green boy who’s never suffered in his life. (You’da thought they’d remember 1861 and “the American Experiment has run its course”. But nobody remembers that. All wartime friends here and everything’s just peachy.) America looks out at the grey city skyline and grits his teeth.

(His ceiling is white.)

God, he’s tired. It must have been the unfamiliar room, or the proximity to the Wall, but he couldn’t get to sleep last night at all – opting instead to look through his presentation for the conference and try (and fail) to write up notes on his meeting with Germany for lunch yesterday. Mostly, he’d just watched the lights in the sleeping city, and at some point, he must have nodded off.

He rubs his bleary eyes.

It doesn’t matter how tired he is. Today he’s gotta talk to Russia.

He chews his lip and considers revising his notes again, but decides against it. These meetings never actually accomplish anything. It’s all about showmanship. Lately, America’s all about showmanship.

But Russia…

America stands up, puts on his glasses, and makes a beeline for the mirror. Fuck, it’s obvious he didn’t sleep at all. His face is pale and blotchy, and he scrubs at it frantically.

Russia’s unmoveable. (But then, America reminds himself, that’s his policy angle.)

He runs a hand through his hair and reaches out to turn on the shower. The water takes a while to heat up.

And America does what he can – he preaches freedom of…, he swings between friendly and threatening in the blink of an eye, but that caprice pales next to Russia’s iron-clad _sameness_. (Some of the things he comes up with are completely unbelievable, or outright lies, but he says them flat out and it’s up to America to persuade everyone otherwise.) And maybe the others think so too.

It’s all policy. He’s smart enough to realize most, if not all, of it is staged.

But, God help him, he’s scared. Yep, you heard that right – the USA is scared, and maybe it’s just because of the propaganda McCarthy’s churning out, maybe not, but. Even now, in this hotel room, he looks across at the bedroom, wondering what’s tapped. They’re awfully close to the GDR. The phone at least surely goes straight to the Stasi. (And from there to the NKVD.)

He dries his wet hair and tells himself it’s pointless. He has to focus on bigger things. Like showmanship.

It’s simple. Because he has to match everything Russia does, he has to attend every world meeting. He has to get there before Russia and he has to look less tired than Russia and his lies have to be more convincing than Russia’s.

America yanks a white T-shirt over his head and returns to the mirror, stifling a yawn. One glance is enough to tell him he needs to get out the foundation. No surprise there. He’s been wearing makeup to meetings ever since post-war scratches went outta fashion. Any kind of vulnerability isn’t acceptable – any unwanted question, no matter how much he claims to have nothing to hide. Sometimes he wonders if they all notice the powder over his freckles, the streaks of highlighting cream along his cheekbones. It blends in well, but outside this room, it’s impossible to tell how obvious it is to everyone else.

He finishes erasing the bags under his eyes with concealer and moves on to brushing foundation over his nose and cheeks. (Damn freckles. They’re barely visible anyway, but he’s gotten accustomed to just covering them like everything else.) Then, leaning close to the mirror, he tries to put a lighter skin tone on his eyelids. Stepping back, he snags his glasses and tosses the mirror a million-watt smile. _Not bad._

He doesn’t bother trying to look formal for the meeting. Since the war, most of them haven’t bothered. He just pulls on a pair of jeans from his suitcase, socks and sneakers, then grabs a satchel and stuffs his notes for the conference into it. Before he took the flight to Berlin, he’d been working through some confusing reports from the CIA in Mexico City – some Cuban communist plot and a man named Che Guevara – but he’d left all that in his NYC office. Russia always makes a point of asking about “America’s backyard” and America always says they’re fine, perfectly happy (they must be with the amount of money his boss keeps sending over), enjoying all those freedoms he loves to go on about. He makes a mental note to check later if any of it’s true. (Si, of course, Central America will chorus. Guatemala’s leaning heavily on Honduras, staring at the floor.)

(But Russia will go on for a while, speaking as if he knows more about it than America himself. And America deflects it onto the Eastern Bloc, but he always feels his unease is obvious. That by changing the subject he’s finally done it – lost yet another inch of ground, conceded things are similar in both the satellite states, which they’re not, they’re _not,_ and…)

America takes a deep breath and glances at the alarm clock again. Still time to get breakfast and some coffee before the meeting. He picks up his room key from the bedside table and tucks his bomber jacket under one arm. It adds a touch of American soldier to the casual jeans-and-T-shirt, and that’s what the world should see – an American soldier, young, idealistic: generous, friendly, and careless, ready to do what no one’s dared before, the most magnetic person in the room.

The kind of person who can look Russia in the eye and say: “You won’t press that button.”

(It’s also useful for days when he’s _sure_ he looks too fat. He’s gained a few pounds since the war ended and although that’s typically a good thing, he doesn’t want people to think… Well, England and France give him enough trouble as it is.)

He’ll put the jacket on when he gets to the lobby. It’s October and it’s cold outside.

**Author's Note:**

> \- "Prussia, the new German Democratic Republic": East Germany
> 
> \- "The Great Patriotic War"/"Poland spits in his face": WWII. It didn’t result in being very much of a ‘patriotic’ victory for Poland when the “free elections” were completely rigged and “independence” gained was fake. Up until the ‘50s, some “cursed soldiers” who’d been part of the Polish WWII resistance effort were still fighting the Soviet-dominated gov’t. The scenario here is more a flashback for Russia of what he’s done in the past, though – Poland by October ’56 was actually experiencing a period of changes from Stalin’s policies etc.
> 
> \- "knew that his new boss actually wanted his opinions": Russia’s “old boss” was Stalin. Khrushchev was different. This stuff about “actually wanting opinions” is arguable tho… let’s just settle for “more liberal than Stalin” and leave it at that.
> 
> \- "Hungary could be a problem": Yeah. The Hungarian revolution of 1956 started on October 23, so this all is set early-mid-October ’56.
> 
> \- "if you can afford to fly tons of candy over for children in West Berlin": Cute story. One of the highlights of the Berlin Airlift.
> 
> \- "NKVD": “People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs” in the Soviet Union. Overlaps with the KGB – actually the KGB used to be a subset of the NKVD – and basically the law enforcement/secret police
> 
> \- "1861"/“the American experiment has run its course”: 1861 saw the beginning of the American Civil War. England and France supported the Confederacy.
> 
> \- "proximity to the Wall" – that is, the Berlin Wall
> 
> \- "propaganda McCarthy’s churning out": check out McCarthyism and the Second Red Scare
> 
> \- "Stasi": (in)famous East German secret police
> 
> \- "CIA in Mexico City"/"Cuban communist plot": the Cuban Revolution is imminent, just like the revolt in Hungary.
> 
> \- "they must be with the amount of money his boss keeps sending over": Dollar Diplomacy… basically, throw money at them so that they’re not dissatisfied enough to turn Communist. Alternatively, throw money at the dictators so that they can maintain their regime and the people can’t muster the force to overthrow them and turn Communist.
> 
> \- “America’s backyard”: Latin America and the Caribbean.
> 
> \- "Guatemala’s leaning heavily on Honduras…": in ’54, two years before this is set, America toppled the democratically-elected, reform-minded government in Guatemala, basically to preserve some business interests there (see United Fruit Co.), by falsely accusing the president of being Communist. Then proceeded to support a series of dictators that killed or “disappeared” anyone remotely like a political opponent as well as committing genocide against the Maya.
> 
> \- “The reason we struggle with insecurity… highlight reel” is a quote by Steve Furtick.
> 
> \- Title taken from the song "Ivan Meets G.I. Joe" by The Clash


End file.
